There's no better Present than a Future
by P'tfami
Summary: A sequel of sorts to Hogfather. Susan's Hogswatch woes are far from over. She's about to be given an offer she might not refuse...
1. Flurries of worry

There's no better Present than a Future

Disclaimer: I donot own the rights to Terry Pratchett's Discworld characters. Merely their representation. And the punes or play on words.

* * *

The big, ball of flaming gas rose over the Disc's edge.(1) 

(1)You can tell from the ominous opening that its going to be a tale about Good triumphing over Evil in the end. Not to give it all away of course. Er…right. Carry on.

It touched the ridges of the valleys in Lancre, made half hearted descents into its pitiless, bottomless depths before spreading across the rest of the land. Eventually all the land mass was covered in a thin veneer of crimson light, as usually seen in the aftermath of great battles fought in motion pictures.

Except here.

Between the gnarly woods, just before Lancre's famous standing stone, there were – imbalances of perception. _As if the light hesitated to enter these grounds. _

It eventually appeared over the invisible line marking the boundaries. There was a millisecond pause before the shadow of the stones appeared on the other side. They say there are Terrible Things in the deep dark woods…

Now let us enter this mysterious mirror and take note of the landscape.

The woods are there in the distance, but these trees have not been touched by real sunlight in a long, long time. It would be easy to say that there is death all around, but in reality, it is really the absence of anything substantial.

It is the eternal winter of the imagination.

Nothing really belongs here. It shouldn't belong here.

And now there are voices on the wind. A tall figure sits astride an impossibly white unicorn, and appears to be listening. There appears to be some thought process going on inside the still figure, weighing options and possibilities.

At last, the queen smiles.

And the war is beginning.

* * *

The month of Ick was passing by in a flurry of snow. 

This was not a view widely held by the people of Ankh Morpork. Although Ick was the shortest month of the year, a mere snow flurry was hardly going to stop their daily businesses or in the case of the latest visitors, try to find a business that would take them in.

The last of the Hogswatch trees were being unceremoniously dumped in alleyways, sometimes with the odd shiny bauble or paper streamers still attached to the branches. Ankh-Morporkians had a unique approach to subject of recycling, viz, squeeze every possible use from it, and if the Golden King Piss Harry himself didn't take it, then leave it for the next sap to use. Some people might have considered this charity, and there was an unusual amount of that going around recently. Strange, it was almost as if the spirit of Hogswatch had permeated the hardened shell of Ankh-Morpork's natural cynicism. Naaah! couldn't be it, they thought before feeling the strange urge to go home, and write fifty thank you notes to various relatives for their Hogswatch gifts.

The Auditors watched the scene below in gloomy silence.

After the – 'incident', there had been a meeting with the Great Azrael - Lord of all deaths, that in turn led to more meetings with the other concerned deities, all of which involved a lot of Words.

The most worrying ones being "Keeping-Eye-On-You".

The near success of the Belief obliteration operation had a lot of the Gods on Dunmanifestin badly shaken by the news from vine leaf to sandled foot.(2) They were practically falling over themselves to Set Things Right with the masses, clearing their weekly schedules ('Rise, eat/drink/orgy, Meddle with Fate of Menn, eat/drink/orgy,sleep) for long overdue Special Appearances, Manifestations, Visitations and Signs.

(2) The Gods were very rigid on the fashion front. Start making changes in that field and you're yesterdays Diva.

This was not the result that the Auditors were expecting. They had hoped no – it was _imperitive_ that when the project succeeded, there would be an elimination even of those ridiculous fools on the Celestial Plains. Now the Gods were on their guard, and it be ages before another opportunity to control all the Disc's Belief would crop up.

It had been, to use a human term (which they all hurredly disclaimed) a major cock-up.

Speaking of which, there was still the question of Mr Teatime.

It had generally been assumed that Death got him in the end. The question was : What did He do with the body?

* * *

"… then Gen'al Tacticus exp-E-dit-E-us-ly led the calvary of six hundred and forty-two men into the valley of Koom ." 

The sound of little childrens voices was always pleasant to hear. Even more so, when they overcame a difficult word on their own.

"Good." said Susan after Gawain finished the paragraph . "And if you behave tomorrow, we'll go and see how the war of the valley of Koom was really fought."

"Does that mean I'll have to wear my galoshes?"

"Do you _want_ to explain the presence of blood and mud on your socks later to your mother?"

"No, Susan." came the meek reply.

"Very well, then."

And then it was time for bed. That meant pleasant dreams for the children, and aspirations of Class distinctions for the elder Gaiters.

Not for Susan.

She had taken to going to bed quite late these days. She couldn't seem to settle back into the state of normalcy as easily as before, not with the hairs at the base of her neck in a constant state of static every night. Susan was rather in the position of a seismograph that senses a light reading off the islands of Fiji, only to have a whacking great wave creep up on her from behind.

Something was…it was not _off _like the wrong chord in a well known song, but rather like the wrong harmony that should have been sung in a lower key.

It was something to do with Hogswatch night, and all the things that had happened. Hah! A lot of things had happened. She discovered that you could ignore the Occult all you liked, but in the end blood will out. Her grandfather came calling, having decided that he preferred the job of the Jolly Giftgiver over his usual job. For one thing, it meant more colourful uniforms. And the hours were less demanding. Of course _that_ meant that in the course of one evening, he had turned her entire world upside down.

Again.

Explaining the absence of the poker to the Gaiters on Hogswatch morning would have gone a lot more smoothly, if Gawain hadn't blown the gaff about the whereabouts and more precisely the _whoseabouts_ of its location. He had gotten an extra lesson from the sixth book of the Campaigns of General Tacticus, ('New revised edition with additional footnotes) while Susan calmly laid Mrs Gaiters worried spirits to rest about Glittering Swords and Glass eyed men stalking her children.

The truth, of course, was entirely out of the question. She knew the Gaiters had enough difficulty adjusting to Susan's severely practical approach to the children's education, as well as her obliviousness to her noble background. To add her- _unusual _talents to the mix would be too much. It was all she could do to keep a straight face as Mr Gaiter made an ever so tiny lift of the eyebrows, and directed a silent look of enquiry that she pointedly ignored.

And now here she was, sitting wrapped up in her sensible dressing gown, intently watching the frost patterns on her window waiting for – for what? another premonition?a sign ? an angel writing in a book of gold? Perhaps he'd tell her that she was finally losing her mind. Good riddance to bad rubbish sort of thing.

Consumed by these gloomy thoughts, Susan failed to notice the glimmer coming from the corner of her bedroom door. Let the camera of the eye pull into a slow zoom on the solitary object near the post. It is a marble. Nothing more. But if you turn it one way, it is the prized possession of a little boy sleeping a few doors away, for it wins every game that the boy plays. Turn it another way…and it's a spy for its original owner.

* * *

An eye with a pin sized pupil watched the figure on the bed. 

It was not attached to a substanstial form. Yet.

But stray thoughts still abounded from the consciousness of the mind that was once attached to a body that was once attached to the glass eye. Plans of the whirring, buzzing illogical kind were being made to achieve a physical body soon, but for now the disembodied mind, to use a politer term, was currently brooding.

Beaten by a girl.

That practically made her his _nemesis _didn't it? The very word irked his finer feelings, that were so fine in detail that they were practically nonexistent.

Still.

To bestow the title on the girl was to give a tangible name to their last encounter.

Mr Teatime wasn't truly annoyed over his recent demise, dear me, no! not at all. It was after all, part and parcel of the cat and mouse game that a true Asssasin played with his target, and he wasn't about to let tradition down.

No.

What truly _annoyed_ him was the unseemly manner with which he had met his end. In the hands of a girl with more luck than skill on her side.

All he had ever wanted for Hogswatch or indeed, out of life was to Up There with the Greats. It is the surest form of immortality. In fact, he had plans to fill the entire wall at the Assassins Guild, dedicated solely to his name. With syllables neatly spaced.

It was the girl's fault of course. Riding into the Tooth fairy's castle, all in designer black lace, armed with nothing more than her Grandfather's rather kitchy looking sword and a lot of false bravado. Oh dear, the Hero syndrome did spread to all quarters, didn't it?

And what did he do?

What any self respecting Assassin does, of course.

Introduced himself with _just _that right amount of weary boredom and subtle animal magnetism that left the average would-be heroine weak in the knees.

The grand-daughter of Death, he discovered, didn't qualify in this category.

Oh! he cajoled and threatened her and made good on all the known trademarks of a professional Inhumer , viz, get their guard down and then move in for the kill. Literally.

But she kept his eyes on him the entire time, and made sure that he knew it. He pretended not to be a little unnerved by it at the time.

Mr Teatime' extraordinary abilities for speed had nothing to do with skill. Its just that people's eyes started to water from trying to decide which one of his eyes was less appealing to look at. Their mistake, in most cases their last one, was the natural tendency to take their eyes off the hand holding the dagger in the recesses of his cloak. The Hand was quicker than the eye, after all.(3)

(3)People always forgot it, though.

And then, she slapped him.

They were getting along so well, he thought and granted, it was the most human contact he had ever received at the hand of the other – Gender.

Mr Teatime had never been inclined towards female companionship before. It wasn't strictly necessary in the grand scheme of things, and he had a lot of grand schemes to keep him occupied. His first meeting with a couple of Seamstresses, was out of pure curiousity to see what his other companions were up to on their evenings off.

There couldn't be that much sewing repairs to be done.

After realization dawned about the actual nature of their activities, Mr Teatime simply laughed and took off, abruptly leaving his two baffled young female companions behind. They would later discover that sometime during the hasty exit, he had managed to tie their tresses together, and on reaching their rooms had made damaging slits in all their 'work clothes' that was impossible to repair.

Susan wasn't like any of those other girls. In fact, she had something that he would gladly kill for, being a natural talent as far as he was concerned.

If he could coax her, wheedle her, bring her over to the dark side, make the deal….the Disk would be his personal playground.

* * *


	2. Trouble brewing

Thank you for the interest shown in this unfolding story. I feel under additional pressure to make it worth your while.

Disclaimer: I donot own the rights to Terry Pratchett's Discworld or his characters. Merely their representations. And the punes or play on words.

* * *

The next day was murky and heavy with storm clouds.

This was a fairly accurate reflection of Susan's own mood. She was aware of the telltale signs of Drama at play. Something was brewing on the quiet, and it wasn't Owning Up. This, coupled with lack of sleep from last night had put Susan in an unusually snappy mood.

"Put it back, Gawain."

"No! you said that I could keep it."

"Back. Now." There was no resisting that command. If it asked that you walk over hot burning coals, then you had better be nursing blisters by now.

Gawain sighed. In his small, pink fleshy hands was a helmet flecked with the remains of something that might have once been pink and fleshy. More flesh anyway.

They had been watching a bird's eye view of the battle earlier in the afternoon, from the convenience and comforts of the nursery room. (1)

(1) The added advantage of watching one of the Disk's most violent battles in history from the comforts of your home, was that it was the first time that a battle could be set on Pause during toilet breaks while the soldiers remained frozen in mid – time, exchanging puzzled glances over mutual heated glares.

Susan wanted the children to learn a lesson in the realities of war, but not so much that they would wake up with half screams in the middle of the night. Later, they stepped through the window of time and walked sombrely past the remains of the battleground keeping a wide distance (and suitably downwind of course). The siblings were allowed a keepsake each from the battle, as a reward for their good behaviour on the previous evening. The exception to the rule applied to items still attached to moving objects. Like limbs for instance.

"The scavengers will find more uses for that helmet than you would" said Susan grimly, as they watched the last ragged lines of the army leaving the battleground. They followed the troops for a while, until they reached a valley. They stood on the edge and looked down below. "You might find something on this side."

"What is it, Susan?" asked Twyla in a hushed voice.

"It's their campsite."

The scene opened out to row upon row of canvas tents below the valley line. Imagination dictates that the tents should be brightly coloured, with emblems of mythological beasts and other fauna, perhaps with a few silk streamer flags fluttering gaily in the breeze. The most you could say about these tents was that everyone had agreed on one colour scheme, viz, a grey-ish beige that blended well against the arid landscape, and the shadows cast by the valley lip. The only items fluttering in the winds of a brewing storm were clothes on lines, crisscrossed across 'alleyways'. Swathes of grey smoke wafted out of tent flaps here and there with the strong smell of animal dung. Subdued laughter of children interrupted the hum of activity under these mushrooms of sanctuary.

"People live here?" whispered Twyla tensely. "Families?"

"Yes" said Susan tactfully, squeezing her shoulder. "If the war is long or far enough."

On cue, two little boys ran across a track chasing an imaginary dog or something, before they were hurriedly rushed back inside. The soldiers were returning home.

"Those spearheads look blunt" said Susan, above the hubbub of impassioned cries and joyful greetings rising up to their ears. "Now be quick about it. Don't forget the exchange." (2)

(2) Part of the duties of a Governess was teaching your wards about the importance of such rules as 'No Stealing' _along_ with the exception to the rule which is : a) when it is completely necessary , b) they won't miss it and c ) you have to replace it with something useful.'

She was glad the lesson was over. There had been an insistent tinnitus that was steadily increasing her headache per minute. At this moment, Susan didn't give a damn if it _was_ a warning from the future. She needed to be alert if the children's stained clothes were going to escape detection from her employees prying eyes.

In the meantime, the children picked up their spoils of war (Gawain found a leather belt still affixed to his, while Susan impatiently relented ) and replaced their 'borrowed' items with gifts of their own. The blankets, scuffed shoes and bean bag dollies were a nice touch. There was a meal of sorts to be made between them if provisions were scarce.

"Gawain! What are you doing?"

"Trying out my new sling-shot" he said, demonstrating his leather belt's abilities by aiming and completely missing the carrion birds, swooping towards the other end of the mountain. Gawain hurried to retrieve his makeshift ammunition.

"We're leaving now. Hold my hand." Susan glanced distractedly at the objects being pocketed. "Why did you bring the marble along?"

" 'Cause it was" he caught her look. "Be-cause it was feeling lonely."

" Its an inert object, Gawain, made up of crystallized sand " she said wearily, before catching herself. "Look it up when we get home" she added.

* * *

Pull back from the group in the recent scene, and let the landscape fill your vision as it begins to dwindle and shrink before your eyes. The odd rock and craggy formation zooms past from behind, until you reach the sheer wall of the mountains. Watch as you are dragged up (backwards once again) until you're suddenly swallowed into imminent darkness. The journey thankfully ends here, but you are by no means alone.

Someone else watches the group even from this distance. A feral smile etches their lips as eyes the colour of frost size up the little figures, resting on the children for a fraction of a second longer than the adult. A delicate hand tosses and catches a grey marble absently, while watching the trio step through the window of time before disappearing.

"You can put me down now" says a disembodied voice in the cave.

The Queen of the Elves shrugged. "You could go down a long way from up here."

"I wouldn't be much use to you then, would I?"

Moving her hand back to her side, gravity was allowed to take its course.

"Of course, she's much too big to be of any real use to me." mused the Queen as the echoes of a bouncing rock resounded into the tunnels, "although the children…?"

"Yours. A two for one bargain you might say."

The diamond bright eyes flickered to the marble by her feet. "What is in this for you, boy?" she asked genuinely curious.

"A head start for my wall of fame" said Mr Teatime.

* * *

The Auditors had also been spectators to the recent scene in Koom valley, not very far from where our previous scene occurred.

And she gets away with this? said one robe with a touch of incredulity.

She believes she is within the boundaries and rules of time travel. She uses the excuse of Education but _we_ see it as a Degradation of Overall Standards, said another robe contemptuously.

Yes, agreed one.

It was not like this in the old days, continued the second robe.

Yes? queried one.

History books recorded the past and it was the _only_ Truth to believe in. And women knew their place, for another thing. There was none of this Rights and Free Speech nonsense. It's not right! I won't bear it!

There was a collective sigh from the remaining Auditors as their comrade burst into flames, only to be replaced moments later by an exact replica.

We agree though, said the new robe. This cannot continue indefinitely. We must put a stop to it.

But how? said another robe.

What we need, said the first robe, as the last of the sun rays disappeared over the edge. – is a plan.

* * *

A sandstorm arose during the night, but it made no difference to the Auditors who were merely shades or at least spectre-shaped, and therefore incapable of soft tissue and skin to feel the full effects of the storm. Yet their robes flapped about wildly, as the group floated in deep joint thought.

Out of the swirling sands, came a disembodied voice.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

The Auditors stared around wildly for a moment. Then they looked down.

It cannot. Be.

"And yet here I am" chimed Mr Teatime with cheerful aplomb.

How do you know who we are?

"Oh easy! I was listening to the flue network when you gentlemen _dropped_ in on Lord Downey that fateful evening." The laugh sounded eerie against the high pitched whistles of sand grains locked in the wind. " I know all, gentlemen. The deal, the terms - your identities. There's no need to be so worried."

We assumed you were deleted, Mr Teatime.

"You assumed wrong." The voice said acerbically. The glass eye rolled along the uneven ground, as if it were pacing in agitation. "I've come to put forth a proposition that I think would greatly interest you - gentlemen."

If it were humanly possible, the Auditors brow would have contracted in joint puzzlement. But since human attributes were qualities they avoided religiously, it must be assumed that the air merely held an atmosphere of reluctant interest.

What could you possibly have to offer us?

Mr Teatime was quiet for a while.

"Do you believe in second chances?" he asked.

No.

It had come after a barely susceptible pause. If he still had a face, Mr Teatime's smile would have widened until it cracked his youthful visage.

"How about putting a certain Personality away permanently?"

It has been attempted before, said one Auditor before the others could shut it up.

"But I can make it succeed."

The Auditors were not beings that were susceptible to reason, especially if it were your own reasons under scrutiny. They considered themselves the Purveyors of Truth and Upholders of the Laws of the Universe. They saw to it that things ran smoothly, according to _their_ beliefs of how things should run. Therefore, consolidating with a mere mortal, a beardless boy if you will (though at the moment, it was merely a disconcerting glass eye holding the spectre of the crazed assassin) was absurd. Ridiculous. And most probably their very last chance at getting the upper hand for once. Whatever the reasons, they now definitely lowered the barrier.

We are listening.


	3. Messengers of doom

Dedication: I'd like to dedicate this chapter to the memory of the late Ian Richardson, actor & thespian, who passed away on 09th February 2007. He was the quintessential Sherlock Holmes to me, and it seems fitting if somewhat ironic that one of his last great performances should have been as the Death of the Discworld. Eternal rest be granted unto his soul.

In this week's episode, there's a spot prize for guessing the obscure poem reference. Entries can be dropped off at the click of the little purple button at the bottom of the page.

Disclaimer: I donot own the rights to Terry Pratchett's Discworld or his characters. Merely their representations. And the punes or play on words.

* * *

_Bears wandered through the park chasing the children…Darkness and lightning flashes…thin, metal pokers slicing the air and hitting flesh…a carriage riding at breakneck speed with an inevitable outcome…the pattern of snow mixed with blood from an animal's bleeding body…the wheel of fire spinning faster and faster until it engulfed the line of sight …trees, trees everywhere and not a branch is real… A woman opening her mouth to release a silent scream... it was _her!

The lack of noise woke Susan up.

This was an unusual occurrence in itself, because like the average citizen of Ankh Morpork, Susan had learnt over time to tune out the variety of noises that made up this great city's night life. Cats yowled as gargoyles mistook them for pigeons and golems swept through streets picking up scraps for Piss Harry's treasure troves. And there was always a Watchman loudly informing the world that All was Well, over the sounds of dubious activities occurring on the other side of the street. Besides, Susan had found a temporary solution to her insomnia troubles. The wormwood and brandy concoction left tiny glistening droplets at the base of an empty glass by her bedside table. Now if only those damn dreams would stop…..

She stirred, causing the bed linen to make soft crackly sounds that to her sleep addled mind rang like steel sheets across the room. She winced slightly. Then she looked up.

Someone was in her room, writing in a book with a suspiciously golden gilt-edged design on the cover. The faux shine caught the moonlight peeking timidly through the un-drawn curtains outside the window. But there was nothing angelic about the figure's appearance.

"Granddad?"

The figure raised its head. OH HELLO SUSAN.

Struggling to clear her head of its semi-drugged haze, Susan sat up in bed and squinted at her nearest relation in this world and the next. Exceeding curiosity had made her bold.

"Why are you here?" and because tradition beckoned, she added, "And what writest- What are you writing?"

Death sighed.

I SUPPOSE YOU MIGHT AS WELL KNOW.

He told her. She stared in disbelief.

"You've got to be joking! That…that's not even in your job profile."

I SELDOM JOKE, SUSAN. ALTHOUGH THE CIRCUMSTANCES MAY CALL FOR IT ON THIS OCCASION.

Death was not capable of any facial expressions, but Susan could sense the underlying growl in that last sentence.

"But writing down the names of people who believe in Gods/Deities/Ideals is completely absurd, " cried Susan. "Who the hell do they think they are? I mean, I _know_ who they think they are, but there's no call to make it actually official."

I BELIEVE BLIND IO WAS VERY INSISTANT ON THE CERTIFIED PAPERWORK

"Coming from a God who can't keep track of his own eyes, that's a laugh." Susan sniffed. "And why did they pick you? I thought all these Gods had avatars or winged messengers or something."

APPARENTLY THE GODS WANTED AN ANTHROPOMORPHIC ENTITY RECOGNISABLE TO ALL LIVING CREATURES. A FAMILIAR FIGURE YOU MIGHT SAY.

"But not necessarily a welcome one."

YES

"Then why do it?"

I DIDN'T HAVE A CHOICE IN THE MATTER. IT IS TO BE THE FIRST STEP IN A 'REVIVAL' I BELIEVE THEY CALLED IT. OPENING AVENUES OF BELIEF FOR POTENTIAL CANDIDATES BASED ON THE PRINCIPLE THAT EVEN AN ATHEIST BELIEVES IN MY PURPOSE - BEING THE CESSATION OF ALL LIVING THINGS. THE GODS ARE HOPING THAT THESE INSPECTION VISITS WILL MAKE THE AVERAGE LIVING CREATURE PONDER UPON THEIR FRAIL MORTALITY AT WHICH POINT THEY WILL MOVE IN WITH THE PITCH SALES TALK. AND THEY NEEDED SOMEONE WHO WAS AVAILABLE AT ALL TIMES OF THE YEAR. He added sourly.

"Can you charge them for overtime?" asked Susan, feeling a little light-headed. She stifled a yawn.

Death's gaze flickered to the glass on the table. NO.

There was a pause.

"So – am I in there?" she asked a little too nonchalantly.

NO

She sagged with relief.

NO GRAND-DAUGHTER OF MINE IS GETTING VISITS FROM FORCES OF THE OCCULT PERSUATION. EXCEPT FROM ME OF COURSE.

"Ha Ha Granddad."

INDEED.

Death seemed to hesitate. ER..AND HOW HAVE YOU BEEN FARING?

Any traces of their previously shared camaraderie evaporated like the morning mist.

"Fine," she said briskly, fingering the sheets of her bedspread. "Thank you for asking."

If Susan had looked up, she would have seen a brief flash of electric blue flare in those deep eye sockets. The moment passed, and Death suddenly seemed very interested in the illustrated patterns on the cover of his gaudy book.

AH.YOU'RE WELCOME. AND NOW I MUST GO.

Something nagged at the edge of her mind, and it caught up with her now.

"Granddad?"

YES? He replied a little too eagerly.

"All – this…doesn't have anything to do with what happened on Hogswatch night. Does it?"

Death appeared to thinking about something or at least very interested in the corner of her bedroom door.

THERE HAS BEEN A HEIGHTENED AWARENESS OF THE LIMITATIONS

SURROUNDING THE CONCEPT OF BELIEF. WHICH MAY BE INDIRECTLY LINKED TO CERTAIN EVENTS THAT OCCURRED ON THE NIGHT IN QUESTION, he said carefully.

"Why are you-"

I DIDN'T WANT TO WORRY YOU

Susan felt an uncomfortable erratic thump in her throat, which annoyed her to no end.

"What happened?" she said, a little more harshly than she meant.

IT WAS A BUSY WEEK. THERE WERE MONSOONS ON THE COUNTERWEIGHT CONTINENT AND AN EPIDEMIC SPREAD ACROSS DISTANT KLATCH. ALBERT HAD TO COVER ME FOR THREE NIGHTS-

"What happ-" Susan paused. "Albert? How can _he_ cover for Death?"

HE REVIEWED THE KLATCHIAN VICTIMS. HE JUST STOOD THERE SHOUTING, AND I QUOTE _ALRIG' YOU LOT! WHO'S DEAD THEN _? _COME OUT AND BE COUNTED AND STOP PLAYING SILLY BUGGERS. WE ALL KNOWS YOURE DEAD, LIVING PEOPLE DON'T HAVE THE BLOODY LANDSCAPE SHOWING WHERE THEIR STOMACHS USE TO BE. _UNQUOTE.

It was a lot of information to digest, notwithstanding the fact that her grandfather had just used quotation signs to punctuate his narrative. Susan almost forgot to be angry, which was a more familiar, comfortable emotion to deal with at the moment.

"I mean – What were you _not_ going to tell me?" she ground out.

Death made a vaguely conciliatory action with the book clutched between his bony fingers. I HAD A – PREMONITION.

"What?"

OR WHAT YOU WOULD CALL A HUNCH. I WENT TO CHECK TONIGHT AND IT WASN'T THERE.

"What wasn't there?"

I HAD JUST PUT IT DOWN FOR A MINUTE AND THEN THE SUMMONS CAME AND I WAS BUSY– Death sighed. HE'S GONE.

"Who?"

MR TEH-AH-TIM-EH'S BODY.


	4. Shadowy patterns

**Author's Note:** Hello readers new and newer. First off, a shout out to: **innocentsmith** for guessing Chapter Three's poem reference - "Abou Ben Adhem" by James Henry Leigh Hunt. Thank you all the lovely reviews and encouragement, you are all way too kind. Suggestions for improvement are most welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Terry Pratchett's Discworld or his characters. Merely my representations. And the punes or play on words.

* * *

Across a plain of inky black skies, a rider leaves trails of cirrus in his wake. 

Below the plain is a panoramic view of the Disc, where its Greatest City sits like an amoeba with veins of moonlit rivers running across its surface. The rider ignores this, having seen sights both wondrous and more disturbing since the dawn of its existence. The albino horse reflects its Master's distrait mood with every muffled clash of iron shod hoofs against the cloudy ground.

It might have been worse, reflected Death. A lot worse….

_The reaction to news that Death had mislaid a body in his hitherto impeccable career should have been along the lines of "Oh, 'insert-frequently-invoked-Deity's-name here'!!" or at least, "You did what?". _

_Susan had remained uncharacteristically silent._

"_I see" she said at last._

_GOOD said Death, feeling unaccountably relieved for some unknown reason.(1)_

(1) It is technically impossible not to mention in extremely bad taste to say that he had been holding his breath.

"_Checked everywhere, did you?"_

_OF COURSE._

"_Right .. " She muttered, taking a deep breath. "Any idea who might have taken it or why?"_

_I REALLY COULDN'T SAY. THE AUDITORS HAVE BEEN SUSPENDED FROM UNIVERSAL AFFAIR MEDDLING UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. AND MR TEH-AH TIM-EH DIDN'T STRIKE ME DURING OUR BRIEF ACQUIANTANCE AS THE SORT TO LOOK INTO A FUTURE CAREER AS A ZOMBIE. _

_Susan bobbed absently at the end of the report. The only indication of any underlying tension was in her pursed lips that appeared as a straight dark line across her pale face and the tightening of her knuckles around her coverlet._

"_And now there's your new duty as campaigner for the Gods, so you don't have – any - spare time to find the body yourself, now… do you?"_

_I HAVE ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD TO DO MANY THINGS. He said coldly, as the shadows lengthened and the room seemed to grow smaller under his imposing presence. AND FINDING PEOPLE SHOULD BE WELL WITHIN THE SCOPE OF YOUR CAPABILITIES. I JUST THOUGHT THAT YOU MIGHT BE INTERESTED IN GIVING A HAND …THAT IS TO SAY, …IF YOU'RE NOT TOO BUSY … "_

"_Oh I almost forgot! your visits always have a double agenda attached , don't they? If its not about saving the world from those bloody auditors of reality one minute, then its about leaving me to mind Chez Morte while you take off on one of your little 'finding yourself' excursions!"_

Death winced at the memory, which was a pretty feat for an anthropomorphic personality that had only one facial expression to speak of.

"_And I know," she had continued, waving an accusatory finger. "I just know that there's more to this missing body case than meets the eye. Its another ploy to rile me up so that I have no choice but to go on another wild goose chase - " _

That was her mother's trademark, thought Death sourly. Always one for theatrics when upset or angry. He wondered briefly if Susan would consider exchanging the governess profession for the stage. The gravity of the situation prevented him from making this fatal suggestion.

"… _occurred to you that I have a life of my own now? that I have to keep up some semblance of normality? Why do I have to drop everything - just to accommodate you?"_

_SUSAN, I –_

"_Get out."_

_WOMAN! I AM YOUR GRANDFAT-_

"_I don't CARE, Grandad! I don't care anymore! Everything has to do with – with the Duty in the end! And I – JUST GO!" she finished lamely._

And that was the state in which Death left her. He had done the right thing, of course. He had planted the seed, as Albert would say although what the other metaphors for sunlight, rain and fertilizer stood for remained a mystery. He hadn't anticipated the unexpected direction of the conversation at the end. He was used to witnessing emotions of anger and grief in the souls He collected personally from time to time. Susan however was an anomaly. While her human nature could not be ignored, she also had her _other _nature which instantly made her radically different from everyone else.

An indefinable something clamped around his chest. He could not define it, and put it down to the air currents whistling through his robes as Binky dipped and began gaining ground. He espied his destination from afar and sighed. As Binky slowed to a canter, He reached into the saddle sack and pulled out the rusty chains.

* * *

The noise of the outside world whooshed in, as if an invisible mute button had been relieved on an equally invisible remote control. It was a while before Susan could register the sound of hoof beats and Binky's low whinny above the din. 

What had she done?

She never thought herself to be this bitter. If anything else, she prided herself on the extraordinary patience she exercised with him. The recent argument replayed every pithy phrase she uttered against him and it stung her. The image of Death swaying slightly under the onslaught of her tirade made her wince. And she couldn't pin her behaviour on physical exhaustion alone. It was backed by some deeply seated resentments that apparently had remained unresolved. Damn.

She had to fix this. To think that she could so easily read her wards thoughts when she couldn't even -

Her eyes snapped open. Something felt wrong. The jarring key note among the perfect harmonies of the world again. Sweeping back the covers, Susan grabbed her dressing gown with shaking hands and reached the children's room.

Moments later, Susan sat down on the edge of Gawain's bed and stared at the moonlight streaming in through the window creating shadowy patterns on the bed covers. She had to credit herself, she thought faintly as she stared at the empty space on the bed. At least she didn't scream.

* * *

In a bower far away filled with tall reeds, greying grasses and sunflowers as big as trees, the Queen of the Elves was presiding over her court. Dainty creatures surrounded their mistress as they carried out the first order of the day - Grooming. They came in diminishing sizes from ten to zero (2) and against the odds managed to carry off the fussy single tulip gowns that reached their knees and balance precarious bluebell hats on their heads. 

(2) They lived on sunflower seeds and morning dew and incidentally were starving hungry all the time.

Their job as far as one could make out was to perform any little task that popped intro their mistress's head _and_ to do it genteelly. No one wanted to know the consequences otherwise. While they were assisting their mistress in the task of grooming herself, the other courtiers of the Queen kept watch on the perimeters. There was nothing remotely dainty about this set. Tall, delicately boned and supermodel thin, they were dressed in all manner of animal furs, feathers, beads and the odd patch of fabric to offer some sort of decent coverage. Most of them carried bows and arrow shafts over their shoulders with the telling bulge of daggers by their thighs. The Queen's guests were simply fascinated by them.

As if by a mental command, all eyes fixed on their mistress as she dismissed her attendants and turned her attention onto her guests.

"And what you like to do today children?"

The boy spoke first.

"I wanna bow n arrer ana swored!"

"Ahem" his sister cleared her throat.

Gawain looked slightly abashed.

"um..please?"

The Queen threw back her head and laughed. Somehow the children expected it to sound like the notes of a summer brook. They had never actually _heard_ a real brook or ever set foot in the countryside for that matter but they were under the impression that it would sound like a series of sucking reverberations like an unblocked drain from the kitchen sink.

"Such charming children! I do believe we are going to be such friends."

The children looked sceptical. True, her ladyship had been kind and gracious and behaved all 'queenly' like since their arrival, but nevertheless she was an Adult. A joke can only be taken so far. For the first time, they wondered what Susan would think of this lady.

The Queen's smile froze for a few seconds but she recovered magnificently.

"I do believe I hear something moving among the reeds – who can it be – shall we take a look?"

Intrigued, the children approached the shifting grasses and listened to the stentorian breathing behind the curtain of olive green leaves.

"What can it be? What do you think, children? It sounds big…."

The rustling grew more agitated. Twyla grabbed Gawain's hand on an impulse.

"- and it likes…"

The reeds began to part. A flash of silver orbs gazed back.

"- to eat…"

The children yelled at the sudden movement.

"things…"

* * *


	5. Goodnight moon

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Terry Pratchett's Discworld or his characters. Merely my representations. And the punes or play on words.

* * *

_Champ – Champ – Champ._

The creature's mouth worked like a rotary as bits of grass fell from its spittle flecked, purple-grey mouth. It was hard to tear one's gaze away to appreciate the rest of the body. In all other respects, it looked exactly like the pictures back home at the nursery. Except for the eyes. The silvery orbs lacked that familiar benign if slightly stupid gaze and was replaced with a ferocity and wildness that echoed through its barely restrained limbs. The Queen laid a pale delicate hand on the Unicorns' mane and gave a surprisingly firm jerk. The creature nearly reared again, but it caught the look on its mistress face and thought better of it.

The Queen turned a triumphant smile on the children.

"Wasn't that just _naughty_, children? That is no way to behave before our guests. We do not tolerate any kind of naughty behaviour in my court. It would make me feel – so sad."

On the court's perimeter, the archers grinned in union. Perfect sets of teeth looked feral and pointed in the half light of the bower.

"I bequeath this creature to you, Sir Gawain and thereafter you shall ride through my kingdom rooting out all the naughtiness that resides within its woods. And you Lady Twyla, shall have half my attendants to tend to your every need. There shall be a Ball tomorrow night and we must look our best, mustn't we?"

Bewildered but pleased, the children followed the Queen as she led them deeper into the woods. If they noticed the reeds, grasses and sunflowers receding into grey formless matter, they did not show it. Their eyes were fixed on the fair figure before them and their ears were full of her silver eloquence.

* * *

Swirls of bog mist swept over the swampy moor.

An appropriately waning moon perched like an old woman and leaked salivery dribble of weak lighting that mingled with the thickening mist. Crapulous sounds of what one might imagine to be the tiny echoes of digestive processes taking place within the millions of tiny micro – organisms made further contributions to the overall atmosphere.

Note the gray mist below us, bobbing along like the restless ocean with the occasional belch of clear air arising in spots where some chemical reaction has taken place. One such explosion enables us to catch sight of a subtle difference in the uniform grey sea.

Three figures attired in formless gray hover over a spot. Something small catches the light of the moon in the face of all improbability, creating a brief gleam that might have its own special sound effect – possibly a _'Tw-ing!' _as it is tossed into the deep mires of the bog. The resulting sound effect of this action is a 'Bl-oop' of an unflattering flatulent nature.

Another wave of mist crashes over the scene, obscuring our sight. All we hear now are more sounds of a slightly alarming nature that is only to be expected in places full of boggy mists and waning moons. Sounds that bring to mind words like "oozing" and fetid" are now added to the overall picture of the bog. Like someone dislodging a particularly troublesome piece of corn stuck in between their teeth, the latest word that comes to the overactive imagination of the hapless observer is "squidgy". (1)

(1) A completely foreign word in the Auditors lexicon.

Another eruption thankfully clears the air and we can see that a fourth figure has joined the ranks. The newcomer is in the act of removing a newt from hair soaked with the nameless liquid formations of the bog. It then proceeds to do a few experimental exercises testing the suppleness of its limbs. At last the dripping figure speaks to the trio waiting patiently a little distance away.

"Rather thoughtful of – excuse me" Mr Teatime turned aside and spat out a colony of tadpoles that had chosen to make its home in his throat. "As I was saying, rather thoughtful of Death to have chosen this spot of all places. As you can see gentlemen, the various plantlife, grasses and what not that inhabit marshes like these have slowed down the normal decomposition process. All my limbs appear intact, with little skin damage to speak of – yes, quite satisfactorily, all in all!"

Quite Mr Teatime. Now we must take our leave. We do not wish our presence to be known. Can we expect results – soon?

Moonlight gleamed off the pearly grey glass eye now nestling in the eye socket of the wet assassin.

"Oh, I expect that phase of my plan coming into effect very soon."

* * *

A middle aged man in plaid pajamas is receiving a rude shock in his bedroom.

"Eh! What! What d'yeh want with me?" he gasped, clutching his bedcovers up to his neck. "Hm, what?"

A MOMENT OF YOUR TIME.

Something about the voice seemed to reach down into the nightmarish recesses of his brain. A recent nightmare involving an imposter who gave away hundreds of toys to the customers _without purchasing them from his shops._ Logic invaded and the solution about the stranger's presence in his bedroom almost came as a relief.

"Thieves Guild eh? I think I've got my receipt somewhere around here – "

I AM KNOWN BY MANY NAMES – _THIEF OF TIME_ ™ BEING ONE OF THEM. I CARE NOT FOR YOUR MATERIAL POSSESSIONS OF TEMPORARY VALUE, VERNON CRUMLEY.

"Then who the blazes are you?"

On reflex, Death drew himself to his full height causing a cascade of chains to rattle on to the floor. COWER NOW, BRIEF MORTAL! FOR I AM DE –

He stopped and seemed to pull himself together. THAT IS TO SAY - HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT YOUR LIFE AND WHERE IT IS HEADED?

"Who are you?" persevered the enquirer, buying time.

BECAUSE IF NOT, YOU OUGHT TO ASK YOURSELF: WHERE DO I SEE MYSELF IN FIVE YEARS ?

Vernon Crumley blustered and protested as Death set up a 4x4 canvas sheet spread against a tripod stand with an imp powered projector.

He watched his life flash before his eyes.

* * *


	6. Mighty steed

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Terry Pratchett's Discworld or his characters. Merely my representations. And the punes or play on words.

* * *

It should have been easy.

Take a hardened miser – read, one Vernon Crumley, store owner of Ankh Morpork's biggest shopping centre, The Maul and show aforementioned subject the error of his ways both past and present. Toss in some heart warming scenes from his youth, a couple of tragic yet bittersweet memories of those early struggling days leading up to the present day. Round up the scene of Remorseful Tears, cued by a little lame boy hobbling in the snow lisping "Gods blessth uth evr'un" before the final fade out.

As the last reel ran its loop, Death felt justifiably smug in anticipating his victory. He hoped he wouldn't have to resort to offering his handkerchief.

Death had shown Crumley his own funeral twenty years from the present date. He saw the dark clothes of the mourners and heard the fine speeches about what a splendid chap he was, we'll never hear the likes of him again. He was tickled pink by the glowing tributes from the prominent Guilds of the City. But Death took him inside the hearts of the mourners, and he saw what they were really thinking. The old cod finally got what was coming to him, the miserable so and so, penny pinching, miserly .. the list went on.

"_Oh pfft!"_

This was an entirely new word for Death, but he withheld his curiosity in favour of deciphering the sentiment behind the exclamation.

" _That sort of thing was in my granny's day you know, scaring the daylights out of other people or the bad man will come and get you. No, my dear fellow, you see there's no - percentage in being a nice person. There might have been when you lot were frightening people years ago, but the Disc has moved on…"_

And Vernon Crumley sat there cross legged on his bed, looking so very pleased with his own irrefutable logic that it was all Death could do to stop himself from reaching for the familiar handle of the Scythe.

"_There's only one thing that matters now, and that's success. And only one person to look after, and that's yourself…"_

Five minutes later, Binky was rearing up to take to the skies again. A shadow moved across the rooftop nearby. Vernon Crumley was about to retire to bed again when he heard the window open behind him.

"Oh what now?" he asked exasperatedly.

"Evenin Guv" said a new voice. "since you're up and all, it will make things a lot easier – "

Amid the sounds of thrashing and muffled squeals behind him, Death made a noise between his teeth that could have passed for a satisfied grunt. As he soared through the skies to his next destination, gloomier aspects oppressed his thoughts. How was he supposed to make an effective campaign for the Gods when Greed and Selfishness were being made into virtues?

* * *

Susan closed her eyes, and exhaled sharply.

On a deep level beyond human genetics and bundled nerves, she could feel her Grandfather down to the bare bone. Echoes of his – _experiences _sometimes bounced onto her and she could feel his bewilderment, sometimes his anger but mostly the immense sorrow He felt in a world running on Rules in which he had no say.

It might have started unravelling, she sometimes felt, from the moment he took her mother into his care. Even if you were an Anthropomorphic Being, you could not bend the rules of destiny to your whim. It would eventually rewrite itself to fit the roles assigned to it. Case in point was her father who started out as Death's apprentice, bungled up Fate's carefully laid plans and in the process gained as a wife the only adopted daughter of Death that naturally resulted in producing her – A Something.

With her parents deaths came the despairing realization in the years that followed. Susan Sto Helit was alone on the Disk, an anomaly that no-one could fully understand, cursed with occult powers while desperately trying to cling to the normalcy of her human state.

Alright, so these powers had proved useful. Sometimes. Occasionally. But that was the point, wasn't it, it wouldn't _stop. _The cravings would grow and she would get careless one day and ….

A sharp twist of the neck dismissed these futile thoughts.

Right now, she was going to concentrate on finding her Grandfather and see if he knew just what the hell was going on.

* * *

Susan instinctively slowed down Time. As the last ticks of the carriage clock on the mantle piece tocked, the window panes began shuddering with renewed reverberations.

She drew the curtain aside and stared down the street. Among the frozen statues of passing thieves on rooftops, a couple of pedestrians and a cat in the process of cleaning itself in a gutter was It.

The bones gave off a dull gleam in the darkness, making its beast like appearance all the more prominent. The huge omniscope hung like a second moon between the bone handles. She had seen it briefly in the climatic scene during the whole Soul Music business and it looked now as it did then, that it was breaking at least nine laws and twenty-three guidelines. A sort of recalcitrant aura surrounded it, as if harkening to it's hey day when last in action. (3)

(3) posh word meaning unruly. And 'Recalcitrant' reminded Death of the word 'Calcium' which is the composition of all bone structures. Unruly Bones, geddid? No? Neither did Albert.

"C'mon! c'mon! get a move on! its chilly enough to freeze yer nad – its dam cold that what it is." cried a petulant voice.

"Albert?"

"Right in one. Give the girl a coconut." were the words that formed on Albert's lips before survival instincts from his wizarding days prevented him from making further progress. The secret to his long life (both past and present) lay in knowing when not to push beyond one's limit. Riling up Death's grand daughter, even a Quasi Death at that was not a sensible option for someone freezing his arse in the cold night air outside while the former had access to a warm comfortable room. Instead he went straight to the main matter.

"The Master said you'd be needing transportation for your mission, what with him being busy an' all so you better get a move on."

Susan wondered if the time freeze had affected her mental faculties. It had been an extremely strange night what with her grandfather's visit and the disappearance of her charges. Albert riding into her street on that bone contraption and harping about missions had left her unusually stupefied.

"Could you bring a little somethin' to help ease the chill," he asked hopefully.

Susan rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. This, she felt was familiar ground.

"I don't keep any alcohol with me. Extra mufflers yes, alcohol - no."

"Right" said the sceptical one. "a bit o' that medicine you keep in yer room should go down a treat."

Silence descended and crashed.

"I'll get my coat…"


	7. Undignified Entries

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Terry Pratchett's Discworld or his characters. Merely my representations. And the punes or play on words.

Authors note: I agonised over this chapter. You'll see why…

* * *

The central spire of Cori Celesti rises up from the mountains at the Hub like a ten mile ice cream cone of green ice and snow dropped on the turrets and domes of Dummanifestin.

Voices are carried on the near still air.

After the 'Hogswatch Incident', the gods were sent an urgent memo demanding their presence for a round table conference. And they were so stirred by the threat of dire consequences from non attendance that every single one of them was present at the long table where Blind Io was acting as the chairperson of the meeting. He sent a quick swivel over the assembled faces. Once his eyes returned to their orbit around his visage, he resumed his remarks.

"Anyway, that's the set up. Got to get everyone's cooperation on this one cause it's the big 'un. We're gonna give 'em a show they'll never forget. They'll be painting us over every ceiling in every temple for centuries to come and making those – whatd'you call em? Pictures that move quickly and talk at the same time…"

"Don't know anyone who can do that around here" piped a voice accompanied by a round of sniggers.

"Hundreds of them. And anyway, the ceremony's program should be easy to follow -"

"-and hopefully quick" came a murmur.

"And quick." He said sending brief glares to the offending quarter. Io shifted his gazes to the back of the hall. "are you getting all this down, Ensite?"

"Yes, O Io." muttered the bird faced god of writing and speech now furiously correcting the minutes he was taking down.

It was a decidedly low trick.

The campaign's activities had been too slow in the gods opinion (1) and the results were less than promising. It needed something to spice it up.

(1) anything that didnot involve backstabbing and or committing acts of liscentitious behaviour was simply a waste of good airtime.

It was hardly an issue to begin with, but other pressing engagements and an alcohol induced haze had conjured up the bright idea to start a mini apocalypse. Nothing fancy. Just a small preview if you will of things that might happen if say a certain percentage of devotion wasn't re-routed to other areas.

"..to these figures, our target age groups for the Event are the12 to18, 19 to 25, 26 to 35, 36 to – "

"Come on, come on now" said Io banging the table impatiently.

"er..and er .. so on until the age of 120 in some cases. Humans can be astonishingly stubborn to the end."

"Or have sheer dumb luck" rasped a whisperer darkly.

The seraph sighed. As the Communications Developer at Dunmanifestin, his job was simply to collect sufficient data for his weekly progress reports. Of course, no one told him that it didn't matter what the actual results were so long as they were _the ones the gods wanted to hear_.

"The Demographic charts show that the largest concentration of disbelief centre on the 12 – 35 age group siding mostly on younger males. If more resources could be pushed in this direction-"

"Ah hah! Ay young perrrson. Trust a young perrson to commit such nefarious cr-ay-mes of profanitay."

Puzzled glances were exchanged before settling on a fuming wizened old god from one of the ancient religions seated at the far end of the table. His name was something or the other, unpronounceable in any case. No one paid him much attention and they weren't about to break tradition.

"All young perrrsons are guiltay one way or the other. They ort to be locked up instead of being at large or have their heads lopped orf!" he concluded with malicious glee.

The Gods exchanged discreet glances. Eternity certainly had its demerits.

* * *

The park was deserted.

A lone zephyr slithered over the frost laden grounds nipping at grey tree trunks and exposed ankles. The only visible movement was a pair of stocking-ed legs attached to a very grim looking governess. An impartial observer, had there been one on hand would have found a similarity between the way Susan stalked the grounds and compared it to the graceful fluidity of a leopard. If an observer from Ankh Morpork knew what a leopard looked like in the first place.

_Susan tossed her sensible winter on the Infinite floor of Death's study. She felt Albert's reproachful eyes on her but did not pause to counter it with one of her own. She hesitated before the fireplace which looked suspiciously new. Another dismal attempt at playing 'Being More Human But Not Succeeding' . A set of brass prongs poked from the lip of the stand beside it… _

The gentle oscillation of a park swing on her right was ignored. As were the sounds of scuffling from the nearest hedgerow. Field mice scurried for cover as Susan walked past them.

_In the hourglass room replete with fake cobwebs on shelf corners, Susan caught one of the books she had summoned. Only the deepening crease on her forehead gave any indication that the text disturbed her. Excerpts of certain passages engraved itself on her mental retina. _

'_.. did a victory lap much to Timothy Peake's aggravation . Twyla tweaked her brother's ear and brought him up short mid – dance before dragging him back to Miss Susan who was reading on the park bench. How do you do it? She wanted to ask him. Twyla was sure there was a trick in there somewhere. No one wins six consecutive games against The Peake (Dog's breath) whose prowess on the marble playing field was legendary among their little circle of playmates. She would find the truth even if she had to force it out…' _

_Hmm. Pages skimmed by under her thumb. _

' …_voice again. A low murmuring voice that sounds vaguely familiar. Maybe Gawain's claims about his imaginary friend were not so imaginary after all…' _

_Susan skimmed a few more pages. _

'_Out of the corner of her eye, Twyla could see the carriage clock on the mantle piece strike twenty past two. She looked back at Gawain, hopping on one foot before switching to the other in nervous excitement. She was sure Miss Susan wouldn't like them going off on their own without telling her first. On the other hand, Gawain said it was important not to tell her…' _

Caught in these musings she almost passed the tree.

She hit the tree. Hard.

Loose twigs fell to the ground followed by an oversized bird or at least what appeared to be one.

His clothes were dishevelled but bore traces of their last encounter together. An ingress in the chest cavity showed the remnants of a poker shaped hole, whereas his poet's shirt and form fitting trousers bore the brunt of water stains mixed with other unmentionable elements. This was only briefly noted, logged as mere background information as the eye was drawn involuntarily to the grotesque appeal of that familiar waxy grin of the criminally insane.

Teatime appeared relaxed if slightly worse for wear. His curls were more frizzled and a black handkerchief tied over his left eye completed the look of a swashbuckler recently dragged through acres of difficult and brambly terrain.

Yet he made a deliberate show of brushing off excess debris of twigs while keeping his one pinball eye fixed on Susan.

"How?"

"I have a knack for finding people" she said.

"And here I thought my stealth and tracking skills were unrivalled by any Guild member to date. How disappointing…"

He took a careful sidestep. Susan did the same in the opposite direction, keeping hands at the level of her coat pocket. Teatime giggled.

"Taking a moonlit stroll?" He asked, taking another sidle. "That hardly seems like you Susan. Normally if you need to work off steam, Briers is the place for you. It must be like home from home in there and the company is – lively to say the least. Or so I've heard."

_He's trying to throw me off balance. He wants me to ask him how he knows. I know he knows that it doesn't work that way. Time to set the ball rolling…_

"Where are they, Teatime?"

"Please. Call me Jonathan."

Susan paused in mid sidle.

Oh no. One of _those_.

Susan was familiar with the unspoken language of an interested party. She bitterly reflected that she seemed to attract a certain type of crowd that were either a few IQ points below a jellyfish or antisocial to an astonishing degree. The fact that in recent months, this number had been far and few between was irrelevant. The drunks at Briers didn't count either. She could see the immediate future. The playful banter, the overloaded quips, the thrill of tension in the air. Ooohh nooo…

"No."

"No?"

"No" she repeated firmly. "you hardly made a good impression the first time around so cut the crap. This is not a damn social visit, Teatime!"

Teatime gave her a cheeky grin.

"In that case –" he took an abrupt turn, ran and bounded off the tree, somersaulted in mid air and landed neatly behind Susan with a neat withdrawal of the dagger he always carried, placed lightly against her throat. - we'll have to start all over, won't we?" he finished.


	8. Rocks and hard places

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Terry Pratchett's Discworld or his characters. Merely my representations. And the punes or play on words + the canon quote from the novel in this chapter.

Author's Note: Happy New Year one and all! Hope you like the pressie...

* * *

It was inhumanly quick.

Teatime blinked, then glanced down.

The tips of a toasting fork and a skewer held at cross angles prickled against the sides of his abdomen. He looked up.

And caught a face full of hair.

It was an incredibly stupid stunt to pull particularly against an Assassin of Teatime's calibre given their past experiences. However, the element of surprise had stood Susan in good stead before and she was betting on it to not fail her now. Barely missing the lethal swipe from the Assassin's blade, Susan ducked out from under Teatime's loosened grip and sent a swift thrust to the sides.

Missed. The prongs snagged his shirt leaving a bigger hole in its stead.

Staggering back a few paces, Teatime noted the new alteration and rounded on the armed governess with renewed vigour. Assassins even assumedly deceased ones took pride in their appearance and it wasn't as if he was going to Damages anytime soon. They were back to their earlier positions, circling each other like predators with weapons drawn at the ready. It seemed a little unfair from Teatime's perspective, it was two against one. An eye for two eyes. He suppressed a giggle with difficulty.

"Stop that. Its annoying."

Teatime raised an eyebrow.

"Well so was that old parlour trick. Honestly, a toasting fork? Couldn't come up with something more original like say your grandfather's scythe? I never did get a whack at it did I?"

_I wonder …is it possible to kill Death?_

Working through her heightened adrenalin, Susan's mind raced. She needed to know how he did it since she now knew through which means. Her fist tightened involuntarily around the prongs in self reproach. She should have paid more attention.

"I'll nail the lid on your coffin personally Mr _Tea_-time."

Wasting no time, Susan pressed her advantage in fact both of them straight through the Assassin's gut.

He doubled over and did a strange sideways waddle. The adrenalin rush petered down as Susan waited for the final tumble.

Except that he straightened up and threw his blade with unerring accuracy straight at her. Or rather where she should have been a moment ago.

Susan had planned out two scenarios should this admittedly clichéd scenario ever happen. One was to turn herself invisible as soon as Teatime had taken his eye off her. That was easy enough as the Assassin quickly scanned the area where she last stood. Gliding behind Teatime, she gave herself a mental pat on the back. As long as she didn't alert his trained senses to her position she held the adv-

A rain of metal sliced the air grazing her thigh and hitting her arm.

Even as the initial shock coursed through her brain, some ancient instinct took hold of Susan and she stilled further movement. She glanced down at the long spike imbedded in her forearm. Judging from the proximity and the angle it had to come from the tree that the Assassin was hiding in earlier. An Assassin is prepared for every emergency.

Fighting to subdue a full blown panic attack, Susan was about to go into phase two when – "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

She hissed in pain as Teatime tightened his grip on her injured arm. She was visible again and she needed both arms to make phase two work.

"_Every good Assassin should have a secret stash of weaponry in case of an emergency._' Never really appreciated the wisdom of that rule before. I suspect the Guild included it in the years following the Glorious Revolution of May 25th. Everyone was a bit jittery during Snapcase's rule. Don't struggle. The traps are triggered to set off on any sudden movements and we don't want to present a perforated nanny to the children now do we? Do we?" he asked giving a deliberate shake on the injured arm.

It bore down on Susan that there were certain disadvantages to being in close proximity with Teatime. Whatever harrow he had crawled out from under, it carried with it a very distinctive odour that made her eyes water. It took away eighty percent of the full on glare she was directing at Teatime.

"You find my appearance a tad _deshabille_? Or perhaps Eau de Quagmire is offensive to your delicately nurtured senses? Can't be helped, Susan. I was too busy setting the scene here for a quick change of clothes and a shower. "

Stony silence. Teatime sighed. He had been hoping for some lively banter at least before they reached their next destination but his hostage was content to remain tight lipped. Perhaps a change of scenery might assist his efforts.

A whirl of dry leaves sighed over invisible threads on the ground, soaring past an abandoned skewer. The two figures had disappeared.

* * *

The day was a magical thing of brilliant blue skies peppered with candy floss clouds accompanied by little blue birds singing blithe duets as they weaved lazily across the picturesque woodland scenery. 

"Twyla I'm bored".

The little boy half heartedly hacked his shiny sword into the tree he was using as target practice. Every blow revealed grey spongy mass beneath the surface that the shrub quickly tried to disguise under false brown bark.

Twyla regarded her brother with exasperation. She had heard variations of this expression in the last couple of hours (or was its days?). Although privately agreeing with her sibling, a firm hand at this point she decided would check Gawain's whining before it progressed into a head on tantrum.

"Gawain - Shut it before I tie your hands into a knot behind your head."

For some reason this seemed to pacify him. Twyla turned her attention back to her work.

Examining the latest daisy chain for any defects Twyla sighed and tossed it onto the growing pile on the forest floor. Attending glittering galas with the faerie folk was all very well in the stories that – in the stories someone had told them (long ago?) but it was an occupation that proved to be dead boring and nothing like how she had imagined it. For one thing, the faerie attendants seemed to expect her - a mere child of eight to actually organise a ball in the first place. Couldn't they just magic everything they needed? All the uncertain suggestions and comments Twyla had made were eagerly and - this was worrying – followed exactly to the letter. Vague ideas about sugar spun confectionaries had a couple of flower clad attendants struggling with a spinning wheel and a suspicious looking bag of white powder. Twyla shuddered at the memory.

"Twyla?" A different intonation that made her look up from her work.

"Mm?"

"What is it?"

Among the pastel shades of the daisy chain garlands were a couple of little men spying on the children. They looked like a miniatures done during the Blue period mostly due to their unusual skin tones which were a bright indigo topped by tufts of blood red hair on their heads. Twyla had never seen them before. They did not look like a part of the Queen's entourage. There was nothing delicate featured or fashionable about them. One of them had tied the skin of what looked suspiciously like a squirrel on its head.

"They're pixies" said Twyla a little uncertainly. It seemed the safest bet in any case.

"Cool!"

This was apparently the wrong thing to say in the little blue men's presence.

"Ach! I'm no' a flitty-flitty ya daft big job! An' its _Pict_-ies. Nex' time I'll gie ye such a smack tha'll gie yer three Adams apples instae' o' one" the squirrel clad man said in a menacing growl.

There was another crack and the squirrel man howled.

"R'yer daft man?" hissed his partner. "Them's wee missing bairn. They canna ' trust us if we 'arm them. _She_ might be bak any minute noo."

Glancing back at the bewildered children, a furtive look came into the second little man's face. He reached across and made a grasping motion on the hem of Gawain's trousers.

"Ye no' safe here. Ye an' yer wee sister. Come awa' wi' us an' we tak'll ye back –"

"You hit me" said the boy swinging his sword at the squirrel man. The man lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender, then grabbed the sword out of Gawain's hands in a surprising feat of strength and hurled it at the nearest tree. The tree absorbed the sword's impact like a sponge.

Twyla was in two minds. On the one hand, these creatures so obviously fell in that category of unwelcome visitors who used to plague their nursery in evil days past. On the other hand, there was something so earthy, so - dare she say it – fascinating about the little men's talk. It was rude bordering on insolent and furthermore they didn't talk down to them the way most adults tend to do with small children. (1)

(1) Ahaha. He couldn't even if he wanted to.

Then there was the matter of the unusually keen stares from the men. It wasn't like the Queen's piercing gaze that left pricks of apprehension all over Twyla without the benefit of the siren quality of her voice to soften the blow. It was very different from the docile mildness of the faerie attendants with their strange eager expressions verging on the desperate urgency to _please._

The gaze seemed familiar.

They reminded Twyla of someone who was a bit strict at times but nice in a thin sort of way. If only she could remember who it was.

"What do we do?"

* * *


	9. Wild surmises

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Terry Pratchett's Discworld or his characters. Merely my representations. And the punes or play on words.

* * *

The setting was remarkably similar to Koom Valley.

Peeking through painfully tender eyes, the passing landscape was a mass of standard rock formations that looked as if they had been shipped off a modern art museum. Animal skulls bleached white under the relentless sun grinned vacantly from shadowy corners while a thin veil of sand blurred the distant horizon with its ball of orange cotton at the centre.

_Was it sunrise or sunset? How much time had passed? _

Susan pondered on this as she sat up swaying gently to the rough tumbles of the horse drawn chaise. The cart overlooked a deep chasm with its rather interesting shaped topography below. Escape was clearly impossible. The battle in the park had apparently not the brightest of ideas since it explained her present predicament.

She was exhausted to the bone and even more alarmingly –

She grunted with pain, clutching her head.

"Ah, you're awake!" came the cheerful greeting.

It was hard to fade away or do anything with him watching over her shoulder.

The former Assassin managed to exude the feeling of intrusiveness even as he sat a couple of meters away from her. He was currently noting her expressions as she took in her new surroundings. He was analysing her, she thought, like one of those unfortunate cats he must have tortured as a kid. _Still wriggling while the fur singes, _she added unnecessarily.

Susan was certain of one thing in a multitude of uncertainties. Her throat contracted painfully on a dry swallow. Teatime wouldn't have kept her alive for this long if it were not in his best interests otherwise. It spoke volumes for someone who in the distant past had tried to knife the person shielding them from a thirty foot free fall. Slivers of their brief conversation in the park crossed her mind as she racked her brains for a solution to what Teatime could possibly want with her.

"You and I are very similar you know," said Teatime opening the conversation. "I've been thinking about it while you were napping. By the by, did you know that you snore?"

"Certainly not!"

"Ha! Your stripes say otherwise." He said pointing. The livid stripes showed up vividly across her pale skin even under the scanty rays of sunlight in the distance. "I wonder how you got them" he muttered apparently to himself. "No matter!" he said brightly twitching the reins. "As I was saying, I've been amusing myself with the list I've drawn up about us. Did you ever imagine us ending up like this?" He asked gesturing the lonely scene before them.

"I certainly didn't imagine you coming back from the dead, Mr Teatime"

"Teh-ah Tim-eh" he said smoothly, hitching his hitherto hidden blade deeper into her ribs. "And don't speak unless I ask you." Susan bit back a retort.

"I mean to say _Susan_, there we were, you and I orphaned at a young age -"

"-I was nearly fifteen."

"Adrift & without a name-"

"-I had a family and the Duchy of Sto-Lat! "

"Rejected by society for upholding our staunch beliefs!"

Susan stared in disbelief.

"What's that, then? 'Stick 'em up or you get it in the kidneys?' _Which _I might add, you go ahead and do anyway, because you think it's more fun. "

He smiled contentedly. "I don't think I had as much fun with anyone as I did with you Susan. I'm so glad I took all those precautions."

Feeling another swimming sensation coming on, Susan managed to rasp, "What are you talking about?"

* * *

Long ago while idly pulling the legs off a sparrow, Mr Teatime did some serious thinking on his proposed inhumation. He had heard and gathered (1) from the whispers of the masters of the Guild that his future looked extremely uncertain.

(1) He heard it through the grate vine.

This had troubled the disturbingly carefree youth in a way few things ever did. Mr Teatime had learned at an early age that the absurdly simple solution to Life's problems was to dispose those – objects - that stood in his way in a manner that left no hope for recuperation. He had considerable difficulty in getting others, particularly those fools who taught him in the Guild to subscribe to this point of view.

So he made Arrangements.

"Being forced to rely on the merits of certain parties, I was able to put body and soul together, thus saving something from the wreck of our last encounter."

_Learn from your mistakes lest it's the last you ever make – _another one of the cardinal rules of the Guild. So he learned. Insufficient data on his target due to time constraints and lack of evidence had led to its disastrous conclusion. In order to rectify this, Mr Teatime studied and watched his target as she went about her dull daily routine. It had been mind numbingly boring but patience had always been one of his fortes.

"It turns out your powers are not as omnipotent as I supposed. You seem to operate on a kind of time share with your grandfather. All those powers and you use it for such trivialities like planning unauthorised excursions for your students and trying to catch a few winks every night before waking up in a cold sweat. Dear, dear me! Isn't it ironic? Can't get rid of the bogeyman in your dreams eh? " He watched her eyes. No flicker. No tensing. Whatever imaginary script was written on the horizon made riveting material. He lowered his voice. "You see, I know you. I knew you would come to the park for a confrontation because sadly the dramatic streak tends to run in the family, doesn't it? "

The pupils dilated a fraction.

"You may speak now."

"Why. Did. You. Bring. Me. Here?" she ground out.

"To enjoy the view of course! " He answered brightly. "It will probably be the last sunset you'll ever see before we arrive in Her land."

"Who?"

"Shh! you're going to miss it." He murmured pointing at the horizon.

They had turned the corner and entered a cul de sac with the oppressive roof of the valley overhead. The tumbles had grown noticeably less and, the part of her that until recently had always noticed things, the arid ground gave way to dry grass that crunched beneath the wheels of the cart.  A passing poet would have said the pair sat silent atop the peak gazing at each other with wild surmise while the sun settled in the horizon dragging all its light with it.

* * *

Later Susan would replay the images in her head in the following sequence.

A twitch of the reins. The horse rearing at the blank expanse of wall. A flash of silver prodding the rear end. The horse reared again with renewed panic and outrage and shooting for the wall. The same sense of panic gripped Susan until she noticed Mr Teatime taking out something from his upperleft hand pocket. A sudden wind from an unknown quarter blew into the enclosed space, but she didn't take her eyes off his hand as he threw something sparkly at the looming walls. A moment of darkness. Then –

_Schwing_

* * *


	10. There'll be cake

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Terry Pratchett's Discworld or his characters. Merely my representations. And the punes or play on words.

* * *

The shadows thickened. The air grew progressively colder. Trees seemed to come out of nowhere and grew steadily darker. Still they ran on. Or rather the running was being done for them.

"Crivens! Lads, pick up yer flat casses else she catches on to us."

"Ach! I'd like 'er tae feel the back o' my cass make no mistake."

More trees flew by. The children swayed slightly at sharp bends but the feegles had a very good grip. The Feegles plan was a simple one and appealed to their basic creed: Steal and run. The children presented no argument and let the little men run through the plan. Literally. Presently, they reached a point where there were several forks in the enchanted forest. This presented a reasonable cause to pause in consideration.

"Ya boggin, ye flip on yer backside if ya hit with yer cass!"

"Who yer callin a boggin? ya po' bellied scunner!"

"right! som'un tak me coat – "

The children landed with a small _thump _in the snow.

"Twyla?" whispered Gawain.

"I don't think I understood them either." said his sister.

"No, Twyla" . That's when she noticed that his eyes were focused on her shoulder. Or on something behind her.

As sounds of the ensuing battle raged down below, Twyla took a few steps forward and

peered into a darker patch of grey.

"Its just the trees, silly! There's nothing there, huh! Don't tell me you were scared –"

"You were scared too!" contested Gawain hotly.

"Was not!"

"Was too"

"Not!"

"Too!"

"Whut did we miss?"

The feegles had gathered around to watch the pair with interested expressions. Some of them were nursing the glorious aftermath of the recent scuffle.

"Nothing. Gawain was just being a fraidy - Hey! don't go-"

Gawain Gaiter was not many things. He was not five feet eight like his father for instance. And he was not a scaredy cat either. General Tacticus would not have stood for this in-sub-body-nay-shun in the rank and file. He wasn't exactly sure what was a rank and file but it did not matter. Determined to live up to his hero's expectations and especially determined to wipe that stupid grin off his smelly sister's face, Gawain boldly went where most men went before and stupid ones at that.

There was a roar from the men as he stepped through the gap.

* * *

They were back in the park.

It was as easy as that. He was almost disappointed.

Gawain looked over his shoulder. The little men seemed to have gone. Well, maybe they had another fight to attend. They did promise to bring them back after all.

The park was the same as it always had been - the sun shining, the trees were green with new shoots while in the distance, the empty swings dangled aimlessly in the breeze. Hah! He showed her. They got back alright. They were not going to get into trouble. He had saved the day. Just like General Tacticus.

He watched his wet sister run over to her group of friends presumably to blubber like a – like a wet girl. Later, she would turn up at the swings and he would push her off when she wasn't looking. It never failed to get a rise out of her. Only. Only there was something he had to do first. He opened his hand and looked at it, feeling faintly surprised at its emptiness. There was something he had to do before he pushed Twyla off the swings. Maybe Miss Susan would know. He looked up and saw Miss Susan seated on the wooden bench as she always did when she took them to the park on Tuesdays. She was reading a nondescript book as she always did although he couldn't recognise the one she had packed today. Funny. He always took note of the books she packed for their day trips, in case he got the chance for a sneak read when she wasn't looking. (1)

(1) Susan always made it point to carry such classics as _Crime does not pay _by _Laura Norder, Crime on parade _by _Major Payne _and that grimly humourous work,_ A schoolboys' troubles _by_ Ben Dover._

That's right, he was looking for something. Something important.

Ambling over to the bench, a movement caught his eye. Was it a bear? But he hadn't trod on any cracks on their way today (were there cracks on a forest floor?) no, it was a little blue bird screeching not so sweetly in the trees. Screwing his eyes at the noise, he turned his attention back to Susan who was holding out the brown bag. Lunchtime already? He supposed he better tell Twyla. But she wasn't on the swings. Maybe she was on the monkey bars?

"Susan, we had the most amazing adventure! We were in a forest an' I got a swored I mean – sword an a horse an there were these little blue men but I don't think the poker would work because I saw one of them knock this huge dog that was chasing us-"

Susan gave him a piercing look and shook the bag in her hand.

His spirits dropped a notch.

"Ah – S-Sorry we left like that" he said sheepishly. "but we didn't get into any trouble an-"

A more vigorous shake. He accepted the bag meekly and opened it.

The sharp smell of snow. A blur of edges. A burst of blue feathers. And a rising, rousing chorus of –

"_Dinna eat tha apple!"_

* * *

Susan took in fleeting scenes of snow and a diamond edged sky before seizing her chance while the horse was still jittery.

GIDDY UP NOW!

The chestnut didn't need to be told twice. With a burst of speed, the horse took off for the forbidding looking forest while the wheels rattled dangerously on the slippery snow. Mr Teatime grabbed the reins in a vain attempt for control. Now both hands occupied.

First came the superhumanly hard punch in the gut that left the blonde man winded.

Bending over the dickey box, Susan held the stolen knife over the cart's holdbackand concentrated on the swing of her arm. She imagined it was the Scythe. She felt the sharpness, drew from it, felt it tingle along her arm. Her arm was a weapon. Wood splinters flew in the air.

It was amazing what she could get her limbs to believe. It was so easy to suspend normal thinking. It felt – _good._

With little time to spare, Susan took the leap. She landed roughly, then squeezed the flanks of the chestnut with her legs and prayed that her horse riding lessons paid off.

The trees in the distance, perhaps sensing their impending arrival, started to unravel themselves in a vain attempt to avoid impact. With a magnificent swerve, horse and rider managed to avoid the wall of trees though it took the terrified horse several false starts to get its legs sorted out.

The cart wasn't so lucky.

With the crash resounding in her ears, Susan gasped in relief. The cold air was a wake up call. Part of her rational mind told her this was merely adrenalin talking and she wasn't out of the woods yet. Steering the horse towards the nearest opening, they plunged into the heart of the forest.

* * *

Gawain opened his eyes. He was lying on the forest floor. He could feel the wetness of snow penetrating his coat. It was eerily quiet except for the sounds of sobs. There were patches of grey gloop on the trees that was rapidly growing more branches the longer he stared at it. Everywhere was - confusing . He was in the park and then he was back here. He had heard the shouts of the blue men. He looked up to find his sister staring white faced by his side. And that was when he felt really frightened. Because if Twyla wasn't bothering to disguise her tears, then he didn't see why he had to either. They were lost. And he wanted to see his mother more than anything.

It couldn't get any worse than this.

"Hello children."

Pushing himself off the floor, he gazed tremulously at the smiling lady upon her white horse. At least, she looked like she was smiling. Miss Susan smiled like that preparatory to grabbing the unfortunate creature of the hour and breaking their arms. The siblings clutched hands and drew closer for the little comfort it gave them.

"I must say I am sorely disappointed in you children. Running off like that, when we had so much planning to do! Twyla, we have been anxiously awaiting your presence at our tea party. Look, Mr Fuzzums managed to find some real fairy cakes."

A tall broadchested elf with streaky looking red worls on his face and biceps held aloft a basket. Several struggling humanoid fireflies fought to untie the string strapping them to the cupcakes.

"Wh-Where are the little men?"

The queen crinkled her smooth forehead. "Little men? What are you talking about?

If I hadn't come in time to save you from the drome, you would have been done for!"

"The Drome?"

She pointed a long elegant finger at the grey goop now sliding onto the forest floor.

"They are like what you would call spiders. They weave dreams and try to catch unsuspecting or naughty children who wander off when they shouldn't."

"The little blue men were fighting here a minute ago," insisted Twyla, "I saw them! They followed Gawain into this great grey web that was in the trees and then they were gone and –"

"You imagined it" said the Queen calmly. "That's the power of the dromes – they can make anything seem real enough. I daresay you children both walked into one and thought up this idea of little blue men. Tell me, did they look like any of my escorts?"

The children exchanged bewildered glances. Now that they thought about it…

"Now then!" said the Queen happily. "Now that we've put this unpleasantness behind us, I do believe there is a party awaiting us in the bower. And your horse awaits you, Sir Gawain. I do like to take good care of my presents. I would hate for something-unpleasant to happen to them."

Gawain opened his mouth and let out a squawk. His sister's warning grip was tight yet her face seemed oddly serene.

"Alright." she said sweetly. "May I hold the basket?"

* * *

An aerial view of the enchanted forest would have shown a curious procession had there been a bird daft enough to brave the heavy magic of the land.

To the south was a procession headed by the Queen upon her white horse, followed by her escorts and the children. If the imaginary bird narrowed its beady eyes further, it would have noticed some surreptitious activity on the part of the smaller dots who appeared to be dropping something at intervals, leaving a microscopic trail that would have given the bird a migraine if instinct did not kick in.

Swooping down with gurgling stomach, the bird would not have made it that far before a well aimed stone knocked it dead.

Its last thoughts (hypothetically if it showed strains of lucidity) would have been in the direction of nor'nor east where another procession was catching up. They were bound to meet in the middle. At least there would be cake.


	11. Does Aught befall you?

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Terry Pratchett's Discworld or his characters. Merely my representations. And the punes or play on words.

Warning: The following chapter has some disturbing imagery regarding cruelty to animals - even though said animal is imaginary, just thought I'd warn you.

Carry on.

* * *

A strange mood has gripped the city, dictated the quiet tones of William De Worde from his desk. He paused. The problem, he thought looking ruefully at a recent clacks missive, was exactly that – Strange with a capital S. It has been well established that the average Ankh-Morporkian is inclined to be distrustful of verified written facts of say the dietary habits of country porcines, but are nevertheless staunch supporters of flying rumours. (1)

(1) Which meant a class of people while not prone to whipping out their spyglasses when hearing the phrase, "Pigs might fly" would still end up arguing that well, it might happen you never know with those pigs, bless their little aerodynamic tails.

Bearing this in mind and very much against his truth telling grain, William had authorized the publication of one or two articles that dealt with the 'quirkier' dealings of the city. Like the one over the holidays about the appearance of a Hogfather complete with real pigs turning up at the city's biggest shopping Maul. It was a pity that Otto had been unable to get a close up owing to an humbuggian discrimination against the vampire from entering the Hogfather's grotto. Or what about the perplexing blitz of bodies that were found on rooftops all over the city including those of a notorious gang of criminals? The Watch said that Inquiries Were Underway which meant that they were still as stuck as the aforementioned bodies before their subsequent discoveries.

And then there was this missive that had arrived late last night.

The diocese of the temple of Offler in Ankh had sent in a statement that their 10ft graven image of the reptilian god (hitherto always dry eyed in the face of its worshippers earnest pleadings) had suddenly sprung a leak. Worshippers and clergy were further amazed when it was discovered that the rose coloured liquid seeping from the statue's eyes was in fact wine. Not the best vintage, mind but quite palatable all the same. William had not been impressed, recalling that the Temple was located on an old mining site with its disused underground pipeline still in place. In all likeliness this was simply a matter of corroded water, but he sent a runner down to temple for further investigations.

Another missive was from his old friend Mr Wintler and his other gardening friends. Their vegetables had started producing less humourously shaped versions of well, of divine beings.

It wasn't even the kind where you cock your head, wink one eye and it looks in fact like a misshapen potato with very precise markings of eye shoots. So far Mr Wintler's buddies had made a collection of 15 recognizable gods and 12 recognizable goddesses made ready for tomorrows front page with a special place of honour reserved for the three Petulia radishes unearthed in different suggestive poses. (2)

(2) Petulia is the Ephebian Goddess worshipped by the ladies of negotiable affection. Known for wearing dresses that accentuate rather than hide her figure, a fact both distressing to all right thinking women and not at all distressing to all right thinking men.

William tried to ignore the innocent brown box on the edge of his desk. A radish shouldn't be capable of even achieving _that_ position…

He glared at the disorganizer who gave an impatient cough.

Other sightings that reached the office over the week had included mysterious disappearances of kitchen items from drawers, unexpected showers of mushrooms, birds flying backwards on the migratory route via the Ramtops. (3) and the classic writings on the wall, although no one took this one seriously until yesterday when the same script was written on hard to reach places like the Tower of Art and the copper bridge, the same script over and over: **It Is Coming.**

(3) A phenomenon explained by the cautionary measures adopted by our fine feathered fowls against Granny Weatherwax's merciless aviation skills, i.e, allowing nothing to stand or fly in her way. Ever.

That sent a shiver down everyone's spine that had nothing to do with the increasingly cooler weather of late.

But on top of all this, the most perplexing mystery had to be the mysterious summons from the Patrician that arrived on his desk just then. There was just the tiniest hint of relief as William grabbed his coat. Whatever was on the Patrician's mind was bound to occupy his entire attention, however unsettling, from the days' curious news items.

* * *

There were trees, trees everywhere…

As horse and rider maneuvered their way through the forest, Susan eventually gave up on the horse. The creature had been uncontrollable since the chase from the grim hounds. It was far kinder to let it take its chance on the forest. Maybe it would find a way out. Whatever this land held it would be after her. The dogs were just a friendly warning. Even if she turned her head very quickly, the branches tried to cover up and add unnecessary detail as soon as her eye was drawn to it.

And not a branch is real.

For one panic filled moment when Teatime had opened the gateway, Susan thought that she was back in the Tooth fairy's land. This place felt similar in nature. It was like a child's rendition of a Hogswatch card, all white snow everywhere because its easy to draw and doesn't take a lot of imagination to think up. Unlike the Tooth fairy's castle, there were very definite shadows among the trees, deep and long and menacing. She could feel eyes on the horse as it galloped away before refocusing on her.

Oh yes, she thought grimly, I know exactly where I am now.

_She glared at the book. The title mocked her, raising its metaphorical curled finger in a come-hither motion. Changing her grip, she tried prising the book open. It was no use. Its insubstantial form kept slipping through her fingers. It was like trying to twist air into a pretzel._

_Albert hovered in the foreground looking offensively smug._

"_Found anything yet?" _

_Of course she hadn't she said and lost her grip on the book…_

_That hovered in mid air._

_They stared at the book as it rose and returned to its place on the bookshelf. They were silent for a while._

"_Well, I've got Twyla's descriptions" she had said uncertainly. "It's enough to go on."_

_Albert just stared at her, all traces of smugness gone._

"_I think you should wait for the Master to come back." He said in an unexpected voice. It wasn't kind or gentle, just unexpected with its trace of underlying anxiety._

"_I can't wait, Albert. He's changed it. I don't know how he did it, but he's changed the_

_nature of his self. I have to find him. Find them. Bring them back."_

"_Yeah, but the Master has more - experience in this sort of thing." _

_He missed Susan's stiffened pose and flashing eyes as he went on. " I was thinking I had seen this somewhere before. In one of them grimmoires. Its been done before in places like Howandaland where the usual practice is placing it in a jar underground. Nothing can touch them see? Ride into battle and let the buggers fire whatever they've got – Old Johnny Klatchian can take it with his hair in a braid and a drink in his hand."_

"_Yes, well I believe I can manage--"_

"_How are you going to do it, eh?" he argued, "This is High Arts meddling, serious incantations and circles and such like that only the exalted wise men of the age ever attempted in times of peril or just some bloody fool of a kid messing around in stuff he doesn't understand. If your kid was involved-"_

"_He wasn't" she snapped. "Not intentionally. He-He didn't understand what he was doing."_

"_But he was taught _what_ to say and he had enough practice on how to say it. See here? Your girl's book says that you told him off on three occasions in the last two weeks for disappearing on his own."_

'All those powers and you use it for such trivialities like planning unauthorized excursions for your students' _Damn him…_

Well, she knew how to handle that, didn't she? She was glad that she was still angry from the escape and the fight because her other less red eyed thoughts did not like the idea of her breaking into a run and rushing into the gray form who tried to retreat back into the shadows…

..that disappeared in the fog. Puzzled she reached out and her questing fingers found a tree that shrank back from her touch. She kicked it for good measure and moved forward keeping her hands outstretched. The fog was really thick; she could feel her breath getting shorter as the air condensed around her. Her hair lay flat on her head losing its will to primp itself under current conditions. She wanted to get out of this right now.

It was the last ironic thought she had before her boots missed contact with the ground and met with thin air.

* * *

Snow drifts fell thickly in columns of gray and white. It fell on the remains of the wreckage, sprinkling a fine powder over the wheel spokes that had since stopped rotating. The dogs approached it with stealth bearing their razor teeth. Or what remained of it. Just earlier, they had leapt upon the first intruder and its rider and the experience had been very unpleasant. They managed to get a few nips and instantly regretted such rashness seconds later. Never before had they encountered an intruder so angry that they picked one of the dogs by the hind legs and smashed them against the other two!

The Queen would be angry for the lapse in security later but as they say, let sleeping dogs lie…

(1) The dogs sniffed the remains of the wagon's bunker that had entangled itself around a tree.

(1) Straight out the realms of nightmares, these fiery eyes, razor bearing canines nevertheless exhibited all the usual hallmarks of canines everywhere and peed against the tree which dissolved on contact. (2)

(2) Although technically the bunker was in the tree since the trees had not been trained to smash upon impact not having seen enough of real trees to get the knack.

Nothing. The snow had removed all traces and the scents had disappeared along with it. As the dogs turned away, one of them paused and glanced up, panting in doggish amazement. A pair of hands grabbed it before the others astonishment.

A series of high pitched yelps and it was soon over. Boots crunched over the snow spattered ground picking its way delicately over the broken spine of the wagon. A gloved hand patted the muzzle of the nightmarish thing that gurgled with laboured breaths before ceasing finally. The figure stooped to pick up some snow, rubbing it between his flecked fingers until a fine pink spray fell at his feet.

"Goood doggies.."

* * *


End file.
